


in your bed, he still smells of gasoline

by LittleBlueLantern



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Motel California, Slash, Stiles POV, Teen Wolf, allusions to suicidal thoughts, episode musings, mostly canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:16:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2047653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBlueLantern/pseuds/LittleBlueLantern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stiles,” he chides gently after you almost bite the head off of a freshman girl who was playing her music too loudly, “it’s fine. Really.”</p>
<p>You give him an affronted look, because seriously, Scott? Who do you think you’re kidding? And you tell him as much. “Seriously, buddy, go to sleep. You were up all night.”</p>
<p>You leave out the 'and almost killed yourself', because you figure that’s kind of a given.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in your bed, he still smells of gasoline

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: in your bed, he still smells of gasoline. 
> 
> This episode broke me.

You spend the rest of the bus ride home glaring daggers at anyone who comes too close to Scott, who’s slumped in his seat, staring blankly out the window. 

“Stiles,” he chides gently after you almost bite the head off of a freshman girl who was playing her music too loudly, “it’s fine. Really.”

You give him an affronted look, because _seriously_ , Scott? _Who do you think you’re kidding?_ And you tell him as much. “Seriously, buddy, go to sleep. You were up all night.”

You leave out the _and almost killed yourself_ , because you figure that’s kind of a given. 

Scott raises his hands defensively and smiles faintly, but he closes his eyes. You let out a tired sigh yourself and loll your head against the seat, drained from this evil murder cloud that seems to follow you wherever you go. 

Even though Scott’s eyes are closed, you know he doesn’t sleep at all the whole ride home. 

When the bus finally rolls into the school parking lot, you wait until the shambling horde of tired teenagers has debarked before shuffling off yourself, one hand on Scott’s back. Tired as he is, Scott does a quick headcount of the pack, making sure no one’s going to be alone tonight. Erica and Boyd limp off, Isaac tucked between them. Lydia and Alison head off towards Lydia’s car - Alison spares a backwards glance towards you, and you nod at each other: you’ll each take care of your respective wards for the night. 

Scott makes as if he’s going towards his motorcycle, which is when you grab his arm. It’s terrifying, how he doesn’t even resist - normally, even when he’s restraining himself, you can feel the power humming underneath his skin. He blinks owlishly at you.

“Stiles?”

“To the jeep, buddy, come on - you’re crashing at my place tonight. No arguments, rebuttals or negotiations allowed.”

“Wasn’t going to argue,” Scott mumbles, and leans gratefully into your side. 

 

In your bed, he still smells of gasoline. 

You’d showered, both of you, insisting on helping him wash his hair - hovering nervously until he pulled you in, a fond, exasperated smile uncurling on his face. 

He'd made these little noises as you ran your hands over his scalp, gentle and thorough in a way you’ve really only ever been with Scott. For years, he’s been the only one who could ever get you to slow down, though he rarely tries - he’d told you once, in sixth grade, that the constant flurry of your hands made him feel home. 

You'd both fallen into bed fairly quickly after that, settling into place, one of your arms thrown securely over Scott’s waist, your nose pressed to the top of his head. 

It’s late, or early, depending on how you look at it, and you’re praying he’s asleep - you can’t be sure, but the whimperings have stopped, and you think his breathing is mostly even, when - 

“What you said, back there - you meant it.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

You swallow, hyper aware of your heartbeat, of your breathing, the way your scent must be spiking - 

“Yeah. I meant it.”

Scott shifts, pushing himself up onto one arm, looking down at you. He’s got that serious look of concentration he gets sometimes, the one you’ve seen more and more often now that people are dropping like flies. 

“Stiles,” he says, tracing the moles on your face.

You place your hand on the dip of his waist, cautiously, like you’re not quite sure you’re allowed.

“Stiles,” he says again, and kisses you. 

And you count - one, two, three, four, five. One-two-three-four-five. _One two three four five_. All there. Not dreaming. It’s still a little hard to believe, though, so you surge up again, running a hand down his back, licking your way into his mouth. 

You could take this further, you know, could ask Scott for anything and he’d give it to you, because that’s who Scott is, how he works, and it would be so, so, foolishly easy - a hand down his pants, a caress on the back of his neck, a bite to his lips. 

You don’t. You kiss him once more, a little promise, reassuring the both of you, and settle more securely into his arms. You want to be able to see his face, the ‘next-first’ time you do this. Want to be taken apart and put back together again. 

The scent of gasoline is still there, but it’s softer, fainter - breath and blood and sturdy heartbeats slowly warming up the quiet space between you. 

You’ve survived. 

Dawn is breaking. 


End file.
